


Tour Life

by orphan_account



Category: tronnor - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:27:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6392323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Touring is really a pretty lonely business" -Eddy Arnold</p><p>For as long as Troye's been touring, he's been able to echo this sentiment. But with a new sound guy joining him on tour, will things change?</p><p>AU in which Connor is a sound technician for Troye's tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Troye lounges against the brick exterior of tonight’s venue. The sun swelters overhead, so he stands in the shadows. He sips a cup of the herbal tea Mike brewed that morning and observes his tech crew unload the equipment bus following his tour manager Stacy’s directions. Watching them exert themselves under the burning sun makes him feel sort of guilty, but if he tried to help he’d likely drop something on someone, so he stays put.  
  
Most of the technicians for his tour are contracted for temporary interludes. More or fewer of them are hired depending on the venue, so besides his band members and his tour manager, the only constants are his production manager, Daniel, his music director, Carolyn, and the lighting guy, Mateo. Daniel rides on the bus, while Carolyn and Mateo plane hop with the rest of the crew. Today, Troye watches as the usual array of temporarily hired sound mixers and venue provided tech guys bustle around self-importantly, most of them middle-aged, vaguely doughy straight men.  
  
But then one of them catches Troye’s eye: a guy descending the bus’s ramp, who looks to be in his early to mid-twenties. He wears a tight-fitted white tee that perfectly accentuates his biceps, which ripple from the effort of carrying one of the tour’s sound boards. Sweat dampens his collar, and Troye gazes hungrily as the guy sets down the amp for a minute to lift his shirt up and down to fan himself. Troye catches a quick glance of his abs as he does so and they’re just as sculpted as his biceps. Damn.  
  
Mystery Sound Guy enters the building through the stage door, but bends down to coil the amp’s dangling extension cord before he does so, which gives Troye ample time to appreciate his superb skinny-jean clad ass. Fuck. Troye breathes a little heavy and turns his head in order to hide his reddened face should Sound Guy reappear, which is when he spots Karina not three feet behind him. She’s smirking at him, arms crossed, expression one of pure judgement.  
  
“Shut up,” Troye says.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Karina retorts.  
  
She ambles over to lean next to him, stealing his tea as she brushes past. Troye makes a noise of protest, but Karina raises her eyebrows and Troye figures she can have it if it means he doesn’t have to endure any teasing. They stand in silence. Troye urges his face to go back to neutral, but all his efforts prove worthless when Sound Guy comes back outside. This time, Troye can’t help but stare at his face. He doesn’t know how he missed it before, but between his intense green eyes, strong jaw, and perfectly mussed hair, there’s plenty to appreciate.  
  
Troye’s lusting cuts short when he hears Karina snort.  
  
“Someone is thiiiirsty,” she mocks.  
  
“Yeah, well, the tour bus is lonely, okay? And who else am I supposed to thirst after on these long-ass bus rides? You? Mike, while he's facetiming his wife? The 68 year old bus driver?”  
  
“Chill. I wasn’t judging.”  
  
“Like hell you weren’t.”  
  
“All my snort was meant to convey was that you were being painfully blatant.”  
  
Troye scowls at her.  
  
“He didn’t notice.”  
  
“Maybe not, but Stacy did.”  
  
Karina waves to the tour manager in question, who grins back at the pair of them.  
  
“You want me to ask her how long he’s staying on?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
Karina laughs at him and walks over to Stacy. A minute of huddled head to head discussion later, and Karina waltzes back.  
  
“You’ll be happy to learn…” she starts.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Patience. You’ll be happy to learn that Stacy has reported to me that your object of desire-”  
  
“My what?” Troye interrupts, indignantly. “I do not objectify people.”  
  
“Sure you don’t, Troye. Anyways, Stacy says he’s permanent.”  
  
“Really?” Troye exclaims, perhaps a tad too eagerly. “Did you get his name?”  
  
“Nope,” Karina says.  
  
She goes to throw away her tea. Troye calls after her.  
  
“You liar! I know Stacy told you. Karina, come on, please just tell me.”  
  
“Ask her yourself,” Karina throws back at him, winking as she heads back to their tour bus.  
  
Troye rolls his eyes, knowing he’s unlikely to approach his tour manager on his own to get details. That would just be even more embarrassing than his encounter with Karina. He swivels his head away from her retreating form, which brings into his plane of view none other than Sound Guy, who's leaning against the equipment bus.  
  
He’s staring right at Troye. Troye instinctually freezes, but manages a smile after a second or two. Sound Guy narrows his eyes at him and coldly turns away to enter the bus. Perfect. Real good first impression, Troye. Sound Guy must have seen him watching him the whole time. Troye sighs and enters his venue to begin sound check.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later:  
  
Troye stands just out of sight back stage, fingers trembling, mind fuzzy with nerves and anticipation. His opening act finished ten minutes ago and they had been killer, as always. Onstage, his tech crew and band members put the finishing touches on his set-up. Troye tries to make out faces, but between the heavy fog and the glaring white lights, he’s virtually blind.  
  
The stage manager’s call for five crackles through his earpiece and he braces himself. Deep breaths, he reminds himself, deep breaths. At a minute ‘til, Troye opens the eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. He quickly assesses the stage one last time to map the route he’ll take to center, which is when he catches sight of the one crew member he still hadn’t grown the balls to talk to yet. His Mysterious Sound Guy.  
  
He’s trying to stay hidden while adjusting some cables and Troye is low-key worried he won’t have enough time to get off stage when places are called. His worries are completely eclipsed, however, when he notices the way the light hits Sound Guy. He’s otherworldly: bathed in cool blue washes and dazzling white spotlights, he looks positively unreal. Light shifts across the planes of his face, sometimes illuminating his eyes, sometimes his jaw, sometimes his neck. Troye’s eyes chase the light as it traces across Sound Guy’s skin, and honestly? His perfect body being stroked by the lights is perhaps the most erotic thing Troye has ever seen.  
  
Sound Guy stands and Troye revels in the perfect fit of his clothes and the sensual fluidity of his movements. He wears the basic black techie polo like it was made for him and he’s gliding off the stage like flowing water. Troye’s glad he was able to make an exit before it was time for his own entrance.  
  
“Troye! Can you hear me? Get on stage, now!”  
  
Stacey’s voice blares through his earpiece. So Sound Guy’s exit hadn’t been that swift after all; Troye is just embarrassingly late for his own entrance. Panic sets in, but after shaking off his little reverie of earlier, Troye feels more composed and himself. He inhales deeply one last time and then strides onstage. The synths immediately go off, Troye takes center stage-  
  
“Kiss me on the mouth and set me free,” he croons.  
  
What appropriate lyrics.  
  
“Sing me like a choir.”  
  
All Troye could think about is how willing he’d be to let Sound Guy sing him. Any time, any place.  
  
“I can be the subject of your dreams, your sickening desire.”  
  
Troye had never thought of 'Bite' as a prayer before, but tonight it felt that way.  
  
“Don’t you wanna see a man up close? A phoenix in the fire.”  
  
Troye’s mind always generated lustful thoughts while singing 'Bite', but tonight his thinking takes a turn for the positively dirty. He’s gonna need several cold showers after this show. It’s only after 'Bite' ends that he’s able to wrench his mind off of Sound Guy and onto the show, though it seems as if his audience enjoyed his opening number just as much as he did if their ear-splitting screams are anything to go off of. Apparently, his desperation makes for excellent entertainment.


	3. Chapter 3

Everyone wants to go drinking after the concert, but Troye refuses to go out drenched in sweat as he is, so he promises to catch up later. To shelter himself from the thronging fans outside the venue, Troye has his bus driver park their tour bus in a secluded parking lot near the bar his friends gallivant off to. Once situated, he takes ten minutes to skim Instagram for good concert pictures. The best one ends up being a shot taken by a Rolling Stone photographer, which is completely insane that they were even there in the first place.  
  
Social media needs taken care of, Troye grabs an Orangina from the tour bus fridge and lets the fizzy drink numb his fizzy emotions. He’s still riding his post-concert high, which is amplifying his normal feelings to their extremes. When his emotions finally even out and when the last drops of carbonated liquid disappear, Troye heads to the shower.  
  
There’s no one else on the tour bus, the bus driver having joined everyone else at the bar, so he strips as he walks. He adjusts his shower to its coldest setting and hops in. Water running down his body at long last is relief in its purest form, and he takes a minute to savor the sensation of cool droplets beading on his skin. He shampoos, conditions for the first time in a while, and massages his scalp. Soap finds its way into his palms and he takes his time sudsing it over his aching body. He kneads muscles he’s only just discovered on this tour – dancing and the exertion of concerts provide the most exercise he’s ever had, to be honest.  
  
He’s massaging a particularly stubborn knot in his lower back, when he hears it – a creak. He freezes. Had someone come back to the bus? He hadn’t even closed the door, figuring no one would bother him. The bathroom adjoins to the bus’s common area by a narrow hallway, so anyone in the central room would have a clear view of him if they were standing at the right angle.  
  
After a couple beats, though, Troye relaxes, figuring the sound was one of the many quirks of the old tour bus. He goes back to showering. More sounds – footsteps ; Troye looks up panickedly, which is when he sees none other than Sound Guy. What the fuck? What the hell is he doing in the tour bus? He’s standing in the common area, back to Troye. Should Troye get out of his shower to close the bathroom door? But that would make too much noise, which would trigger Sound Guy’s attention, so Troye settles for standing very, very still and praying hard he exits the bus quickly.  
  
Maybe God’s pissed at his failure to ever attend Synagogue services, as his prayers aren’t met: Sound Guy turns around. Time slows, Troye’s brain slows, even the water streaming from the showerhead seems to fall sluggishly. Troye doesn’t even think to cover up. He just watches as Sound Guy spots him and proceeds to fuck Troye with his eyes. Seriously, his eyes are roaming and caressing and devouring his body and Troye would have felt severely violated had he been able to think at all. But his brain short-circuited the moment Sound Guy’s eyes fell on him and all Troye can do is stare back.  
  
Finally, after what feels like eons, Sound Guy appears to come to his senses and practically trips in his eagerness to exit the bus. Troye brings his hands to his cheeks: despite the cool water still pouring over him, they’re burning up. He wipes the last remnants of soap from his body, before shakily leaving the shower to get dressed. He haphazardly throws on his pair of black skinny jeans, a loose green tee, and his black converse. He has to find Karina, now. She has Sound Guy’s name and Troye desperately needs it. After all, it's just good common sense to know the names of everyone who saw you naked, Troye thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Troye stumbles down a back alley en route to their bar du jour. He’s having a hard time walking straight; Sound Guy’s visit had been intoxicating as hard liquor entering his bloodstream, and Troye had always been a lightweight. He focuses on placing one foot in front of the other. Finally, after some very laborious walking, Troye arrives at the address Karina texted him earlier. He slips inside after flashing the bartender his fake ID.  
  
He finds Karina sitting in a booth, taking flaming shots with Mike.  
  
“Wait, you’re gonna blow that out, first, right?” he asks as way of hello.  
  
“Troye Sivan!” Karina screeches.  
  
She had had a few, then. Perfect, it’d make her more willing to spill details and less likely to remember Troye’s begging the next day.  
  
“Yes, you blow out the fire,” Mike scoffs at him.  
  
“I’m underaged remember?” Troye retorts.  
  
“Right,” Mike laughs, passing him a shot.  
  
Troye dubiously accepts the offer. He’s as down to drink as the next guy, but this alcohol is on fire. Flames lick the rim of the glass, flitting uncomfortably close to Troye’s fingers.  
  
“Blow!” Karina screams at him.  
  
She cheekily grins.  
  
“Just like you wanna do to-”  
  
Troye almost knocks over his chair in his effort to throw a hand over Karina’s too big mouth.  
  
“Shut up,” he hisses at her.  
  
“Chill. He’s not even here anymore. Was like ten minutes ago, he was grinding on this guy…”  
  
“Wait, what the fuck?”  
  
“Kidding. Oh my god, the look on your face. You’re seriously whipped-”  
  
Before Karina can inflict any further damage, Troye grabs hold of her wrist and drags her to a more secluded corner booth.  
  
“But your shot…” she whines.  
  
Right. Troye races back to the table, blows out the flaming shot, and returns to Karina, who had already managed to order them a pint of beer.  
  
“Karina. Please. I need you to tell me his name.”  
  
“Who?” Karina asks, innocently as ever.  
  
“Fuck off, you know who.”  
  
“I told you, you can ask Stacy.”  
  
“She’s not here right now or I would! Karina, I’m begging you, please.”  
  
“Why do you need to know now, all of a sudden?”  
  
Troye freezes, thinking back to the incident of earlier. His face must have turned red, or his eyes must have clouded with lust, or something, because Karina’s eyes widen dramatically.  
  
“Spill,” she says. “What happened, what happened, what happened?”  
  
Troye sighs. Karina would bother him until he told her, so he might as well just get it over with.  
  
“Well if you must know, he walked on me.”  
  
It’s comical how fast Karina’s jaw drops.  
  
“Doing what?” she asks, in a hushed voice.  
  
“Showering. Karina, he- Didn’t even look away or anything. He just stared. For like a minute.”  
  
“Oh my god. Okay, this makes you deserving of his name. And if you tell me the whole story in exacting detail, I’ll give you his twitter handle.”  
  
Troye nods rapidly.  
  
“Connor Franta,” Karina says, slowly, drawing out every syllable  
  
Troye mouths the name. Connor Franta. It’s fitting.  
  
“Now tell me the rest. Why was he on the bus? How did he see you in the bathroom? Didn’t you close and lock the door? What do you mean by ‘staring’? Was he in shock or was he, you know, enjoying the view?”  
  
Troye walks her through the events of his afternoon and tells her every minute detail, as she had requested.  
  
“And Karina, I swear, that one minute of him staring at me was better than any sex I’ve ever had. He fucked me. With his eyes. Maybe I was imagining things, but I don’t know, he seemed hungry,” Troye concludes his tale.  
  
Karina had been rapt with attention the entire time. At this, she lets out a long, slow breath.  
  
“Damn. Why can’t shit like that happen to me?”  
  
“Karina. You have a boyfriend.”  
  
“Yeah but he’s far away,” she whines. “And we met in a grocery store. I wanna have a sexy encounter with a gorgeous man in the shower.”  
  
“He wasn’t in the shower.”  
  
“You should’ve dragged him in with you.”  
  
“Karina, please-”  
  
“Fine, fine. But I expect you two to get together in no less than a week, capiche? I’m giving you his handle with that understanding.”  
  
“Okay, whatever Karina, just give it to me already.”  
  
“@thatsoundguy. Don’t be shy about sliding into his DMs, ‘k boo?”  
  
Troye already had his phone out.  
  
“Not now you loser,” Karina protests. “You can do it tonight. Right now, you’re coming to dance with me.”  
  
Karina downs the last of the beer Troye hadn’t even realized was gone, before throwing a hand around Troye’s waist and dragging him onto the dance floor. She begins the sloppiest dancing Troye has ever seen, and Troye laughs at her before joining in with his own bopping.  
  
It’s two a.m. by the time they arrive back at the tour bus. Troye extracts himself from the melee of his drunken friends and slips away to the bathroom to brush his mouth free of the vodka. He then heads to his room and makes sure the door is completely locked before he strips down to his boxers. Cottony sheets cradle his body as he settles into his bunk and boots up twitter.  
  
Trembling fingers try and open the search bar, and fail. He tells himself he’s being stupid and nervous for nothing. Connor’s twitter isn’t a measure of his personality. But what if he’s tweeted about Troye? Wait, what if he hates him?? Or worse, what if he’s a Trump supporter? Or what if he’s completely boring? The negative possibilities are endless.  
  
Finally, he manages to open the search bar. He types in the handle. @thatsoundguy. His page is pretty basic; his icon a shot of a coffee mug, his bio the college he graduated from (College of Saint Benedict and Saint John's University Grad – Didn’t learn much, but I became an atheist), his header an artsy black and white picture of an iron balustrade.  
  
Troye scrolls through his last few tweets.  
  


@thatsoundguy: A little sad, a little scared, a little drunk, a lot unprepared.  
  
@thatsoundguy: R. considering sending tour manager an anon e-mail w/ choreographers to contact, cause my client DESPERATELY needs one.  
reply: @thatsoundguy: Was told his fangirls think it’s “authentic”; e-mail cancelled because my salary depends on said fangirls.  
reply: reply: @thatsoundguy: Christ, that’s depressing.  
  
@thatsoundguy: Just found this new app that lets you know which of your family members is racist. It’s called Facebook.  
  
@thatsoundguy: My boss wears “world’s greatest grandpa” shirt while singing about how young he is – what a MASTER of subtle irony, what a GENUIS.  
  
@thatsoundguy: I hate the word homophobia. You are not scared. You’re an asshole.  
  
@thatsoundguy: This unrequited love, to me it's nothing but a one-man cult.  
  
@thatsoundguy: Bitter and gay, that’s me!  
  
@thatsoundguy: Low-key became an atheist because coffee is more sacred to me than God ever could be.  
  
@thatsoundguy: First day on the new job, here’s to hoping the boss isn’t an asshole  
reply: @thatsoundguy: Update – he is.  
reply:reply: @thatsoundguy: But he’s also hot, so I’ll deal, I guess  
  


He stops scrolling. Shit. Troye didn’t know what he had been expecting but it wasn’t this. Well, if nothing else, this shows him Connor definitely isn’t boring. He’s brutally honest and sardonic and listens to Frank Ocean and loves coffee. He’s also gay. He also thinks Troye is an asshole.  
  
Troye shifts in his bunk trying to find a better position to hold his phone and groans as his head knocks into the light fixture. He ignores the pain and refocuses on Connor’s profile. He wants to follow him, but that would probably stop Connor from honestly gripping about Troye. Troye doesn’t want him to have to censor himself. He’ll just have to check Connor’s page every night.  
  
And he’ll just have to do everything in his power to show Connor he’s not an asshole.


	5. Chapter 5

Their next show is in Philadelphia. Driving there takes all night and their first sight upon waking is masses of rain-slicked tourists barreling into the tour bus’s path; the weather no deterrent to those who, in the 18th century, would’ve been first in line to suck Founding Father dick. The building storm is somewhat more of a deterrent to the band and crew, so they unanimously vote to lounge around the venue rather than sightsee. Troye has a radio interview in the morning, but after it concludes he returns to the bus. He finds Mike, Karina, Daniel, and Stacy in the midst of a really intense game of Black Jack, and as Troye can’t bluff to save his life, he opts out in favor of making himself a grilled cheese.

Ten minutes later, perfectly crisped grilled cheese and Orangina in hand, Troye decides to check out his green room. He follows an usher’s directions, past a series of offices, down a staircase, up a narrow hallway filled with sound equipment until he stumbles upon a small placard that reads ‘Mikey, the ninety year old proprietor of this establishment, is having vigorous sex in this room at this very moment with Her Majesty Queen of England. Enter if you dare’. Troye grimaces before cracking a smile – why are those who work in the music business so fucking weird? He eases open the heavy metal door and sighs gratefully as he finds the room blessedly empty of not just Mikey and his enthusiastic lover, but of anyone at all. 

A sagging faux leather couch accepts the full of Troye’s weight easily as he vaults onto its cushions. Troye snuggles in and chews his grilled cheese contently. He thinks fleetingly about finding the remote to the room’s flat screen, but the decades old sofa beneath him feels so good as to make him revoltingly lazy. He licks the last few crumbs from his fingers and lets his heavy eyelids fall closed.

He only realizes he’s fallen asleep when he’s startled awake by what sounds eerily like a sob. 

“Hello?” Troye askes tentatively. 

No response. 

“Is someone there? Do you want me to leave?” Troye tries again. 

Muffled sniffs, a small whimper –the sounds of someone desperately trying to quell their crying. 

“I’ll just leave, then. Um, give you your privacy.”

Troye brushes the remains of his grilled cheese off the couch, and then hauls himself up to go. As he’s reaching the door, though, a voice pipes up. 

“Please,” it whispers, and then cracks. “Stay.” 

Troye squints around the room looking for the source of the pitiful sounding plea. All of the industrial lights above are burnt out save one, making the room almost too dim to see, but finally Troye spots a foot peeking out from behind a stack of shelves. He walks over to the dark corner, only to find-

“Connor?”

Troye’s too stunned by the sight of the boy at his feet to realize he isn’t supposed to know Connor’s name. 

Connor gives him a wobbly smile and a quick “hey”. His voice quivers and Troye’s heart pulls. He shifts his feet awkwardly at loss for anything to say. Luckily, Connor is the one to fill the silence.

“I’m sorry, this is really awkward of me to ask, but could you stay for a little just to make sure I don’t do anything stupid?”

Troye slides down onto the small patch of mustard carpet besides Connor. He looks him in the face, but averts eye contact when he sees the red rims around Connor’s eyes. His gaze falls instead to Connor’s sweater sleeves, which are twisted with the wet of tears and snot. Troye feels an unwelcome ache in his chest.

“Stupid like what?” he asks as gently as possible. 

“Just take my phone, okay?” Connor says, flinging Troye a gold iPhone. 

Troye catches it, miraculously, and turns it over in his fingers. What, exactly, is he meant to do with it? Connor provides no answer, just buries his head into his knees. Troye gropes for something to say before giving in to the awkward silence’s obviously supreme reign. He sits, mind awash in feeling, until the quiet is broken by the piercing ring of Connor’s phone. 

Troye looks to Connor.

“Who’s calling?” Connor mumbles.

Troye glances at the screen. 

“602.457.6-”

“987,” finishes Connor.

Troye’s brow furrows. 

“Ignore it,” Connor says and Troye presses the little red phone symbol. The ringing stops and they’re allowed four seconds of peace before it starts up again. 

Troye holds out the phone for Connor, who shakes his head. A press of the ignore button ends the ringing, but Troye knows it won't be long before it starts up again. Instead, a voicemail plays.

“Connor,” a harsh female voice bites out. “I’ve called seven times. I’d appreciate it if you stopped ignoring me.”

The woman breathes heavily into the receiver for a few beats before restarting her tirade.

“Fuck you. This bullshit is too much. What I want is so mind-blowingly simple, Connor, just apologize to me. Just say sorry. Say sorry for wasting my time. Sorry for leading me on. Sorry for being such an ass to me even when my friends begged you to stop and to treat me right. Say sorry for using me for sex. Say sorry for making me feel like shit every second we were together. Say sorry for making me want to off myself. Until you do so, I will keep calling. You can change your number, you can move to Antarctica. I will find you. I will-”

Troye, who had been too horrified by the caller’s rant to do anything but freeze up, finally manages the wherewithal to shut down Connor’s phone. His mind is boiling with questions, but one glance at Connor’s face tells him now is not the time. Instead he mimics Connor’s earlier position and rests his head on his knees. Best not to say anything, best to not look at Connor. Best to just retreat. 

The ever present silence returns with a vengeance. After several minutes, Troye risks turning to Connor. He catches the boy staring at him, though he ducks away as soon as Troye meets his gaze. 

Connor takes a harsh breath then says to the floor, “I’m not who she says I am.”

Troye nods slowly then realizes Connor can’t see him.

“Okay,” he says.

Brilliant, Troye. Brilliant.

“She wasn’t even my girlfriend or anything,” Connor continues. “I’m-”

And Troye waits for Connor to come out to him, but he doesn’t, just stutters and then says, “not the dating kind.” 

Troye tries to digest that and comes out more confused than before.

“But you slept with her?”

“Once,” Connor replies. “We met in college. She was the friend of-” Here Connor stutters, and oddly, blushes. Troye itches to question it, to point out the reddening of his cheeks, but he barely knows Connor, he probably shouldn’t even be here, so instead he shuts up and listens.

“The friend of a friend,” Connor finally says. “And I hooked up with her once, she gave me her number and I never texted her back. Shitty of me, maybe, but I thought that was that. Until she started stalking me and spreading lies about me and leaving abusive voicemails such as the one you just heard.”

Troye is even more confused. 

“That’s horrible,” he begins, gingerly. What he has to say seems obvious to him, but he doesn’t want to sound condescending. “Really awful, I’m so sorry. But perhaps you could just block her number? Right? And report any more stalking to the police?”

Connor’s head snaps up and the look on his face is more than enough to clue Troye into the fact that he’s lying, or at least concealing part of the truth. The ache in Troye’s chest becomes a vicious twist in his stomach that leaves him feeling nauseated. 

“You’re right,” Connor says, belatedly. “I’ll do that.”

He tugs his phone out of Troye’s hand in one sharp move, hops up, mutters a “thank you”, and speeds out of the green room. 

Troye digs his fingers into the mustard carpet fibers and bites back a scream. What had begun as a harmless crush has suddenly become a whole heck of a lot more complicated. Connor probably expects Troye to go back to ignoring him, because, honestly, if the roles were reversed, Troye wouldn’t expect a pop star he barely knows to pay him a second thought. But there’s no way Troye’s going to be able stop thinking about Connor now. Though whether he gets up the courage to actually talk to him again is a whole other question. He’ll stick to stalking his twitter for the moment.

He checks it obsessively throughout the day, but Connor only tweets two things.

At 4:53 PM, ‘Thunder on, storm.’ 

And at 11:12 PM, ‘Here’s to little miracles, like the fact that scientific advances into mind-reading have made zero progress. ’ 

Oh.


End file.
